


Bait

by Severina



Series: Dragonverse [2]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:22:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6783211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dragon would be quite beautiful. If it wasn't trying to kill him. What in fucking hell compelled him to volunteer to be the bait?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/gifts).



> New York has fallen. John, Matt and their fellows are making the slow trip to California, seeking Lucy and safety. This ficlet and others that (may or may not) follow will take place at varying points in their journey west, and will not necessarily be in order. 
> 
> Written as a birthday present for the ever-lovely persnickett. HAPPY BDAY, SNICK!
> 
> * * *

_Jefferson City, April_

It starts out as a distant speck, a dark blot against the robin's egg of the sky. In the space of six normal heartbeats – more like twelve with his currently pounding heart – the speck grows, becomes distinct, takes the form that has haunted more than a few of his most recent nightmares.

Thick black scales shimmer; catch and reflect the sunlight as the beast soars. A single flap of its wings takes it higher and it glides above the ruined city, majestic; it reminds Matt of something out of a fairytale. This close he can see the thick webbing that spikes through the sheer membrane of each wing; can make out the way each glistening scale overlaps like finely wrought armour.

The dragon would be quite beautiful. If it wasn't trying to kill him.

What in fucking hell compelled him to volunteer to be the bait?

Matt steals a quick glance to the right. John is there, somewhere, huddled behind the rubble of what the cracked and broken sign had told them was once a branch of the Providence Bank. And he's really sort of hoping that John will at least poke his head out, because he'd like one last look at the guy before he potentially gets turned into a genius shaped fricassee. John, however, appears to be set on remaining stubbornly behind his barricade of twisted metal and charred concrete. Bastard.

Matt shakes his head and turns back to the task at hand. The broom is kind of heavy, the tattered and ripped sheet tied on the end weighing it down. He sets his feet again and lifts it above his head, swinging the makeshift signaling device in wide, sweeping arcs. The ripple of the sheet on the wind is the only thing stirring on the dead landscape, if you don't count the rapid thump of his heart.

He sees the exact fucking moment that the dragon spots the movement. Its head swivels sharply; its wide nostrils sniff the air.

It coasts for a moment, and when it flaps its wings again the sound is of a wet bedsheet ripping down the middle. It make his teeth ache; make the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end. The dragon shifts on the air currents, one wing dipping up almost vertically as it banks in mid-flight and swings back. Toward him. 

He can't feel the broom handle any more in hands gone stiff and cold with fear. He knows he must still be waving the sheet, but only because it hasn't fallen down to cover his face like it did the first few times he practiced. Safely indoors, that was, in the shattered remains of a football stadium in Evansville. Back when there were still thirteen of them, and going was a lot slower because of Malcolm's bad hip. 

"Come on," he mutters under his breath. He wants more than anything to look toward John, crouched among the remains, but can't take his eyes from the dragon's descent. "Come on, come on, come on."

The dragon is almost above him now. He can see the spiky ruffle of its mane, the sharp yellowed teeth as it opens its mouth to draw in the breath that will send out a molten jet of flame. The one that will turn him into a crispy critter. He can smell the stench of it, wafting around him like rotten eggs and ammonia. It makes his eyes water and his stomach do a slow aerobatic spin. 

"Come on!" he shouts.

He sees the streak of the RPG before he hears the sound of the launch, and ducks instinctively. The sheet billows down to cover him, but not before he sees the grenade hit its mark, searing through the dragon's belly in a single, long slow rip that sends blood and guts spewing onto the pavement all around him. He hears the startled, strangled, bird-like cry of the creature and knows that it will be struggling to gain altitude. He drops to the ground and covers his ears and nearly loses his mind at the high thin whistle the dragon emits as it plummets to the earth somewhere beyond him.

It’s a long moment before Matt can get up the nerve to poke his head out from beneath the covering of dirty, blood-strewn sheet. He blinks rapidly, takes a breath and nearly gags on the rancid odor of decay that makes up the dragon's innards. When his vision clears, he finally spots John jogging out from behind the rubble, RPG launcher hooked casually over his shoulder.

"Good job, kid," John says when he reaches him. He lifts a hand, shades his eyes to look toward the crumpled Sonic on the other side of the asphalt, and raises his voice. "All clear, come on out!" he shouts.

"Good job?" Matt repeats incredulously. He tries to get up and finds one foot tangled in the bedsheet, goes down in a sprawl that does nothing to temper his indignation. "That's all I get? _Good job_?"

John shrugs. "You want me to blow ya a kiss?"

"I want—" Matt splutters, an arm flailing furiously. He pushes irritatingly at the dank bedsheet wrapping itself around his legs seemingly of its own accord, and flaps a hand in the air. "I risked my _life_!" he finally huffs out. "I nearly… it was right on top of… I COULD HAVE DIED!"

Callous-roughened fingers wrap around his wrist and tug, and Matt finds himself heaved up from the pavement like a fish on a hook and pressed against John's chest. And it's a great chest and all, but he's suddenly aware that a bedsheet is no protection for the spewing entrails of a fire breathing dragon. He watches a thick chunk of something slimy and unidentifiable slide down his arm and land with a splat on the pavement, and swallows dryly. "Uh, John—"

When John's lips mash down on his, it becomes apparent that John is not at all put off by slime. And it turns out that John's kisses are a fantastic mitigating factor against bloody carnage and the pervasive stench of raw sewage. When John finally releases him, Matt feels a bit woozy from more than the smell of dead dragon. 

The corner of John's mouth quirks up. " _Really_ good job, kid," he says.


End file.
